


Reunion

by themysteryvanishing



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:29:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themysteryvanishing/pseuds/themysteryvanishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come along, you,” Helena said, addressing the sealed static bag in her hands as she made headway for the backseat of the car.

“Yeah, no more whammying for you, buddy,” Pete said, warily eyeing the bag containing the neutralized Schrödinger’s cat’s-paw as he offered Helena the front seat instead. “I am so done with paradoxes, you guys. I bet I’m gonna wake up with at least ten grey hairs tomorrow.”

"Bringing your grey-hair count to twenty, right?" Myka replied, deadpan.

With a dramatic gasp, Pete checked his reflection in the car window, scrutinizing his hairline. Myka grinned as made her way around the vehicle, catching Helena’s demur smile out of the corner of her eye.

They were alive. Helena was relieved to call this full-fledged mission back in the field, the first since Myka’s return and subsequent post-medical-leave reinstatement following months of keeping Myka company during inventory, a success.

 

_Helena had been on the catwalk, idly surveying the endless landscape of artifacts that filled the impossibly-vast room. Every now and then, her gaze was caught by sudden bolts of crackling energy snapping from one aisle to the next. She leaned on her forearms against the railing, one foot propped over the other, smiling as she inhaled the achingly familiar aroma of apples. To her right, Claudia was perched on the edge of an Adirondack, studying the chessboard before her, eyes squinted in concentration, her mouth moving, shaping voiceless words._

_The softest of smiles lit Helena’s face; they’d been at this game for some time now, had begun right around Helena’s initial reinstatement, and it was with a low voice Pete had confessed to her that Claudia had strictly forbidden anyone else from touching the board or interfering with the play in the during Helena’s absence. She’d been delighted to see, upon her return, that Claudia had evidently given thought as to how to counter Helena’s zwischenzug, which had been several plays into a series of moves she had devised to break Claudia’s streak, and her parting gift to the young agent._

_“She wouldn’t have played that if she didn’t plan to finish!” Claudia had exclaimed one afternoon as she chased a harried Artie back into the office and Steve had laughed from his place at the computer, before quickly exiting out of his own game of online chess._

_Helena had been watching from the corner of her eye as Claudia’s fingers came to rest upon a chess piece when Myka had appeared on the other side of the window in the office, her short locks (which were slowly growing back in a fury of curls) tucked under a knobby knitted hat. She had a file in her hands._

_Myka had looked out the window before closing the door to the umbilicus behind her, was reassured to see that Artie had kept his word regarding Helena’s second reinstatement, and only hoped he would take as kindly to Myka’s request to return to work as he had Helena’s (and by kindly, she really just meant furrowed eyebrows and grumbly…begrudgingess. Begrudgingness? Was that even a word? Myka made a mental note to look up long-term effects of the maintenance medications she was on later. And, for good measure, made a mental note to remember said mental note.)_

_Helena was against the doorframe of the office now, watching in earnest as Myka made her case to Artie. She brought a hand to the locket at her chest, felt the swell of pride and admiration and utter affection in her heart, listened with a small smile as Artie made her promise she’d stick to inventory for the time being, until her physician and Dr. Calder had each approved her for field work, felt a twinge of…_ something _when Myka quirked a barely-there eyebrow at Artie’s mention of Dr. Calder and the way he waved his hands in mild exasperation to change the subject._

_Welcome back, darling._

 

The artifact had been successfully snagged, bagged, and tagged.  They were finally going home.

“Hey, Mykes, you drive,” called Pete as he tossed the keys over the car. Myka caught them with a smirk as she approached the driver’s door—

_Crack!_

Glass shattered. There was a collective scream from passers-by on the street and Helena hit the pavement, watching with wide eyes as Pete instinctively crouched next to her alongside the car while drawing his sidearm in one fluid, practiced movement. He was scanning not the street itself, Helena noticed, but the rooftops of the buildings opposite them. His shoulders were tense, hunched, but he held the gun with loose ease. She in turn steadied herself with a deep inhale of rank city-street air that wafted up from a nearby storm drain, watching people scatter in every direction around them as she drew the Tesla from its holster.

Pressed against the sidewalk, Helena turned her head in an attempt to get a visual on Myka, who should’ve heard it too, should’ve been coming around the car by now. She couldn’t see anything but concrete and—

Helena watched in horrified silence as a stream of blood beaded down from under the car, following the incline of the street towards the sidewalk.

Pete was still scanning rooftops when he saw Helena dart from the corner of his eye.

“HG, wait!”

It was with an uncharacteristic amount of willpower that Pete kept himself behind the car long enough to ascertain any potential lingering threats.

And then he heard Helena scream.

“ _MYKA!_ ”

Ice replaced the blood in Pete’s veins.

Helena didn’t scream. Not ever.

He scanned the rooftops again and, having not found what he was looking for—a glint of sunlight off a scope, a silhouette framed by a window, sudden movements along a roofline—emerged from cover, handgun raised, and rounded the car.

They were all exposed on the street.  If they were going to move to better cover, now was as good a time as any.

He stepped out from the other side of the vehicle and halted, the grip on his sidearm faltering, as a nightmare materialized on the street before him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh, god. No. P-please, no.”

Pete struggled to catch a breath through the haze of his own adrenaline. He stood, immobilized, for a full three seconds, unable to control the whine that drowned out the hysteria in the world around him. It all came crashing down at once and he fell forward into a run.

Helena was crouched in a low, protective stance, aiming her Tesla towards the open street with her offhand. She had already removed her jacket and was pressing it with her other hand against Myka, who had slumped onto the street. Pete’s gaze followed the red splatter sprayed against the now-glassless frame of the driver’s window to the smear down the car door. Blood was pooling underneath his partner and running down the street towards the curb.

Myka had not, evidently, made any attempts to move; one leg was bent at an odd angle under the other, her left arm splayed uselessly beside her, right hand gripping Helena’s sleeve, knuckles white.

“M…Myka?” Pete asked, kneeling down beside his partner and placing a hand under her blood-soaked curls in an effort to cushion her head. “Just hang on, Mykes.”

Myka lost her grip on the sleeve and flailed, desperately seeking Helena, who relinquished the Tesla to bring Myka’s trembling fingers to her chest. Pete caught sight of the entry wound as Helena resituated the soaked garment, saw the utterly ravaged shoulder, as if the skin itself had been flayed apart.

_Hollow-points. Had to be. Son of a—_

“Unh,” Myka groaned as Helena pushed her jacket against the red that now seeped freely from her shoulder.

“Roll her over, if you can,” Pete instructed, his voice now surprisingly calm, something for which he spent a full second being grateful. “I need to see if there’s an exit wound.”

“AGH!” Myka cried as Helena rolled her onto her side. “ _Please_ , don’t…”

“I’m sorry, Myka, I’m so sorry.” Pete only needed a second to verify the gaping hole in Myka’s upper back. He muttered something Helena didn’t quite catch as she gently rolled Myka onto her back again and resumed pressure with both hands.

Pete fumbled for his phone and dialed 911.

“Helena, take this.” He wedged the phone between the woman’s ear and shoulder. “Perimeter,” was all he said and she nodded quickly in response, listening and waiting for an operator to pick up.

Already halfway across the street, Pete took one last glance at Myka and, adjusting the grip on his sidearm, set off towards the building opposite at a run.

“Hel…na,” Myka gasped, attempting a placating tone and failing. Her blood-flecked chin trembled. She saw herself reflected in Helena’s eyes, which were now mere inches from her own, and whimpered.

 

***

 

Myka wasn't even sure what had just happened.

All she knew was that the expression on the face of the woman before her—the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, not just in looks or personality or charisma, _but sure, those too_ , Myka had no problem conceding, albeit a tad deliriously now—a frightening combination of alarm and uncertainty and a burst of anger and something that looked dangerously like disbelief, was, even if she closed her eyes right this moment, forever burned into her mind, shelved in her mental library of perfect recall, and that even if she did live through this moment, which was blind optimism at best, that expression would always be there. The most fearful face on the most fearsome person she'd ever known and actually thoroughly liked being in general proximity of, and it was now a memory that belonged to her forever. 

It was worse than Helena’s clearly defined rage against the universe. It was worse than every expression she partially obscured with every gun she’d ever pointed at Myka while begging her to change the rules. It was worse than the tears that had involuntarily spilled after the too-brief spell of sheer delight in seeing Christina again, only to have the memory cruelly yanked away. It was worse than the wistfulness that had flickered across her face after their last hug, an expression Helena had swiftly replaced with something nearing anticipation, which Myka drove away from with something akin to remorse in her gut, leaving Helena on a driveway in the middle of suburbia. It was worse than all of these, because for the first time, Helena didn’t know what to do, and it showed.

Helena looked _helpless_.

And for the first time in years, Myka panicked.

Part of her wished she could just die already. Because if whatever the hell had just happened was something the cosmos had intended for her to survive, there was no guarantee she'd pull through and emerge someone whole. Not anymore. Not with that image burned into her head.

She knew she’d survived a whole hell of a lot in the past year alone, her time as a warehouse agent notwithstanding, but _this_?

Helena pushed an errant strand of her own hair behind her ear and Myka only mostly noticed, blinking heavily against black spots in her vision, because of the scarlet that had flashed into her hazy view, redness which stuck to Helena's hair after her shaky hand resumed putting pressure on Myka's shoulder.

Myka wasn't entirely certain she still _had_ a shoulder, and maybe by the end of all this, she wouldn't, but if the hazy pain was any indication, she knew now she certainly had more than a few things on her plate to worry about later. To think she’d been doing so well with her iron supplements this month…

Myka wondered two things as she debated closing her eyes against the sight of her own blood dashed against Helena's cheekbone: first, the extent to which Artie would convey his regret of letting her back in the field and how such regret would manifest (Myka decided here and now she would push for reorganizing the warehouse library’s catalog if it all came down to field probation; besides, it wasn’t like anyone else had ever been keen on crossing that particular task off the never-ending to-do list. _Addendum_ , Myka thought while ignoring the cold that steadily filled her limbs, _anyone besides Helena_ ) and second, if she did survive this, how often this scene would haunt her. It felt so… _silly_ , all of a sudden. Would she be like the dramatic heroes in the books she’d devoted her childhood to reading? Would she close her eyes at night or in an aisle of the warehouse during what she sincerely hoped was library reorganization, not inventory, and see the blood or Helena's face or maybe hear the scream, that utterly inhuman vocalization that had shocked Myka back into the present after hitting her head on the pavement?

God, she hoped not.

She wanted to laugh. In the game of roulette that was each warehouse agent's fate, would Crazy be her lucky number? Would she go black in the eyes over supper at the bed and breakfast if Pete happened to look at her with casual uncertainty over the fact that her shoulder was hurting again? Would she break down in tears every time she saw blood? Would her arm pain her for the rest of her life, chest tugging with scar tissue every time she drew her gun—if she would even be able to do _that_ again, she thought miserably—a grim reminder that would immediately call to mind Helena’s expression of utter helplessness?

The aroma of blood—her blood, the very thing she’d worked so hard to replenish in the past year—was thick in the air.

Myka shook her mental head—she'd already tried shaking her  _actual_ head as she lay there in the middle of the street, and the gaping maw of pain that had opened up in the muscle was all the encouragement she needed to promptly give up on that—and acknowledged she wasn't much of a crier. Not really. Myka felt another urge to laugh. It was like a painful tickle, something deep and perverse and _excruciating_ as hell.

She really  _was_  going crazy.

If anything, Myka hoped to survive this just long enough to stick it to Helena, that of all the things that had ever happened to the two of them, it took a traumatic event and more blood loss than could be deemed strictly necessary in order for Helena to wind up on top of her. 

 _Silver linings_.

Myka watched as Helena, whose face was now distorted by increasingly-large black circles, started to speak. She wanted to stay awake,  _needed_  to, but—

She breathed hard, desperate to pull some air into her lungs, and immediately regretted doing so, grimacing as an agonizing pain ripped across her chest. 

 _I didn't even get to say.._. 

Myka groaned and closed her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Helena’s heart clinched. She breathed deeply in an effort to steady herself, wanting both to look away from and yet never leave Myka’s glassy-eyed, increasingly-distant gaze. Blood ran a red river beneath them. This was a nightmare.

_Her_ nightmare.

And she was wide awake.

Helena shook her head. She had not spoken after the scream. She refused to believe this was happening to her again. She feared her throat might slam shut altogether, or worse, that if she finally did manage to speak, the calm she’d spent a longer time than most working back into her voice would be gone, replaced by utter panic.

She swallowed hard.

“Myka, I’m sor—”

The operator on the end of the phone asked her to please state her emergency.

Myka groaned once more as her eyes fluttered closed.

 

***

 

“ _Heeeey_ ,” Myka wheezed, as her eyes struggled against drugs and her voice the delirium. Her hospital gown was unbuttoned at the left shoulder, which was now more or less an oversized bundle of gauze.

Pete entered the white-walled hospital room, taking a seat opposite from Helena. Myka’s head rolled like a newborn’s and she blinked hard in an attempt bring her visitors into focus.

From her seat in the chair beside the bed, Helena’s throat tightened. It had been her hope, once, recently, to never again see Myka in a hospital bed. She considered that with a thoughtful incline of her head and silently reprimanded herself. _Selfish_ , _Helena_.

Myka pouted, catching the look on Helena’s face. “It doesn’t hurt, mmk?” She rolled her head back towards the IV drip, indicating the morphine pump.

“Oh man, Mykes, they’ve got you pretty plastered, don’t they?” Pete asked, or rather, Helena thought, he croaked. He quickly scrubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose before running an anxious hand through his short-cropped hair. He sniffed quickly and blinked several times.

Helena realized this was the most distraught she’d ever seen him.

 

_He returned from the perimeter search, face ashen, just as EMTs were loading the gurney into the ambulance. Myka’s shoes were all he saw before they shut the double doors, leaving nothing but a pool of blood beneath his feet. He looked at Helena, who was looking less-than-pleased after being kicked out of the ambulance, and couldn’t tear his eyes from the blood smeared all over her shirt._

_Setting her jaw, Helena stepped forward, over the scarlet, and opened the driver door. Pete stared at the road, where the ambulance had driven through the pool of blood—Myka’s blood—and followed the glittering crimson tracks with a hardened gaze. Helena crawled back out of the car with something pinched between her thumb and index finger._

_Pete slowly brought his eyes to it._

_Helena glared at the somewhat-intact slug in her hand while Pete retrieved his keys, which he was already regretting ever tossing to Myka, from the blood._

_They said nothing as they sped to the hospital._

 

Myka _mm_ ’ed in response and blinked with great effort, thoroughly oblivious. She closed her eyes for a moment, absentmindedly twirling a long finger in the air, before opening them once more, struggling to meet Helena’s gaze.

“Heeeey…He-le-na.”

“Yes?”

“I’m really…” she frowned, sticking out her bottom lip, and Helena’s heart lurched when she realized just how much she resembled Christina after accidentally breaking mummy’s vase after rather flawlessly executing a magnificent move during kenpō practice, “ _reeeally_ sorry—”

“No, Myka, please, you have nothing,” Helena cut across her, resting a shaking hand atop Myka’s, which was taped over and set with an IV line, “ _nothing_ to be sorry for.” She sucked in a tense breath when she found those glassy green eyes.

“But we’re finally back out in the field and…” Myka’s gaze fell. Her forehead creased into a frown, and she moved her lips silently, as if searching for the right words or maybe just _any_ words, but nothing came. Instead, she heaved a sigh and blinked with heavy eyelids. Her chin dropped as she succumbed to sleep.

Pete moved forward and placed a reassuring hand on Helena’s shoulder. “She’s gonna be out of it for a while. I’m gonna...call Artie."

Helena heard the hesitation, felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for him. She stood up and turned to face Pete, tore her eyes from the dried blood on his shirt, and reached out to...what? Squeeze his shoulder? Hug him? She didn't know. She didn't know what to do.

Pete hadn't seemed to notice. He was now staring at the phone in his hands, and Helena knew full well the difficulty of the conversation he would soon be having.

"Anyway, uh," Pete continued, clearing his throat as he made to leave the room, "I can grab coffee?"

Helena attempted something close to a smile. It felt so remarkably...inadequate. She didn't know what to do. She felt a sudden, confusing rush of something close to anger and frowned. She quickly tamped it down, filed away it for later, replaced the frown with a half-smile.

"Thank you."

She turned away from the door to gaze once more at Myka, pale and motionless, but  _alive_. The nearby monitor beeped evenly. The vents hummed overhead. 

Helena sank back into her seat, buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Are you alright?"_

_Myka's world was fuzzy._

_She blinked back the graininess, fought to sharpen the blurry blobs of her immediate surroundings. She had no idea where she was. Her heart pounded in her ears._

_"Can you hear me?"_

_Light poured in from the bay window and Myka felt the chaise rush up to meet her._

_She was in the bed and breakfast. A fire crackled in the nearby fireplace, the heat noticeably warm against one arm. Her balding scalp tingled beneath a thin crocheted hat._

_Abigail, who had been a shapeless blur moments ago, materialized at her side. She was clutching a mallard figurine in her hands, an uncertain finger hovering over its glass eye._

_"Myka! Welcome back."_

_Myka followed Abigail's hands as she placed the figure on a side table and drew a chair up beside the couch. Realization dawned._

_"Please tell me you didn't use the duck."_

 

 ***

 

_"Since Monday's appointment, I haven't been able to keep food down," Myka finally admitted, begrudgingly complying with Abigail's insistence at placing another pillow beneath her legs. "It's probably just low blood sugar."_

_"Well it's a good thing Pete likes his cookies. I mean, have you SEEN the kitchen? I found a half-eaten container of oatmeal scotchies shoved behind a row of cookbooks the other day, and every other pot and pan appears to have been used as a cookie bunker."_

_Abigail handed Myka a glass of water and a plate arranged with of random assortment of cookies, and seated herself on the edge of the chair nearest the couch._

_"Doctor Calder's on her way, but in the meantime, is there anything I can get you? Myka?"_

_The glass and plate were unmoved in Myka's hands. She was staring at the hodgepodge confectionery with a gaze that Abigail could not quite place, and which immediately set the mental gears turning. She pulled up the dossier, Bering, Myka O. Section: Medical. Category: Allergies. None. She remembered a scribble, a handwritten notation, more personal than the typed font tucked neatly into its one-inch margins, but bearing no similarity to any handwriting Abigail herself had ever come across:_ _sugar avoidance?_

_Dammit. She had_ known _that._

_"Oh! Right. I'm sorry about the sugar—" Abigail quickly stood, intending to take back the plate._

_"I should've told her," Myka said, without preamble._

_Abigail hesitated, but knew precisely to whom the woman was referring. She had not deemed it necessary or pertinent to broach the subject in her time thus far—and of all of them, Myka had kept Abigail at arms' length the longest. The initial scope of Abigail’s aid had been Artie Nielsen, but even she would not deny that in the employee profiles she received following Artie’s breakthrough and subsequent progress, where there were limited and impersonal annotations, Abigail saw gaping wounds, with none of the time or opportunity for closure she had strived for with her patients in the past._

_With one blink, Myka pushed back the past and the haze, and brought herself to the present, to the cookies, and to Abigail's practiced, inscrutable expression._

_"Nothing," Myka answered. "I'm good. I'm...good. Thank you for the cookies."_

_Abigail could almost_ hear _the mental file cabinets slamming shut. Aside from finding herself in the fortunate position of being near Myka seconds prior to her collapse and discovering a sufficient stash of glucose-laden goods in not only the kitchen but apparently every nook and cranny of the bed and breakfast, this was the most Myka had allowed Abigail to assist her in weeks. And maybe it was the low blood sugar or the ongoing occult blood loss or maybe it was some law of emotional averages, but Myka had finally done it, had finally let her guard down long enough to expose the rawness, the chafing beneath layers and layers of buried emotions._

_And Abigail wasn’t about to lose Myka—that part of her, at least—so quickly._

_“You still can.”_

_It was a gamble. Abigail waited._

_A log in the fireplace snapped against the heat, showering embers with short-lived flecks of gold._

_To her great relief, Myka did not shut down. Abigail continued._

_"I’m curious, Myka. Who are you fighting for?"_

_"This family._ My _…family,” Myka answered. If she was at all surprised by the abruptness of the question, she did not show it._

_Such tiny, overwhelming details. Something tugged at Abigail’s heart._

_"I fight for them. For Claudia, who finally has a place to really call home and a bigger family than she ever dreamed she’d have. For Steve, and his hope to share endless wonder with his one. I fight for Artie, in all his grumpiness, because I know under angry eyebrows, there's a big heart. I fight for Pete, because he has lost too many people in his life, never asks for anything, but deserves everything. I fight for Helena, because I want to believe she'll come back, and I want to be," Myka's voice caught._

_"I want…to be alive when she does. I fight for them because no one else will. We're all we have. If I'm not here—"_

_"Then who will save them?" Abigail finished._

_Myka pursed her lips._

_Abigail nodded. "You shoulder yourself with an enormous responsibility."_

_"Is it though?" Myka asked, blinking hard._

_"Have you considered that maybe they wish to do the same for you?" Abigail asked. "That when Pete begs you to see a doctor, it’s because he would never forgive himself if he lost you? That when Steve asks you how you’re doing, it’s not because he wants you to lie to him, but because he knows you’re lying to yourself?"_

_Myka bit her lip as she pushed back almost-tears._

_"Helena doesn't even know you're sick, Myka. Why are you protecting her from the truth?"_

_"I don't want to hurt her."_

_"Myka, from everything you've told me, hurting anyone is the furthest thing from it."_

Misfit toys, _she'd once heard Mr. Kosan say. Abigail hadn't realized, at the time, that he had not been referring to artifacts which crackled, restless, in the darkened corners of a treasure chest that, to the rest of the world, did not exist and whose history would be hers to remember._

_She watched the pale woman with an even, steady gaze. Myka didn't know it, but behind Abigail's eyes flashed the particulars of every dossier she read pertinent to Warehouse 13's personnel prior to taking the assignment. Some details were obvious, the sort which, in the wrong hands, would be the swift undoing of hundreds of years of well-guarded secrets. Other details were tiny, infinitesimal, trivial to an outsider's glance—words that had nothing to do with the warehouse and everything to do with its people._

_Easily discarded, effortlessly forgotten, and those,_ those _were the details that mattered. Especially to her._

_Those were what made these people, this family, whole and real. Those were the words that stood for things which built them up, made them who they were, and they were words that, if ever assembled in one precise way or another, could be what either destroyed them...or set them free._

_The day she'd agreed to the job, Abigail had understood._

_It would be her duty to remember. To know._

_Abigail finally spoke again, her voice gentle. "She saved you with a grappler, once, Myka. You just might save her...with the truth."_


	5. Chapter 5

Pete paced the hospital foyer, slowly stepping from one patch of dying sunlight to the next, avoiding the latticework of shadows that crisscrossed the marble tiles. He’d called Artie to tell him the news, and couldn’t believe the words that were leaving his mouth.

 

_Steve was in the office when Artie had taken the call. Couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Steeled himself, counted to ten as he inhaled, exhaled. He grabbed a notepad and jotted down the details, and pulled on his jacket without delay. He watched for Artie’s reaction, waited until the man’s face was in his hands, before speaking._

_“I’ll be on the next flight out.”_

_And in a moment, Steve was gone._

_“Artie?” Pete prompted quietly.  “We’re gonna figure this out.”_

_Artie slowly raised his eyes to meet Pete’s gaze. There was a flash of something—an old and distant anger he rarely saw on Artie’s face—but to this day, still froze Pete’s blood._

_“We touch no new cases until this is solved, Pete,” Artie said, his voice low. “Let’s get to work.”_

 

Pete looked up at sound of the whooshing automatic doors to the hospital. Steve crossed the tile to meet him.

“Here’s what HG pulled from the car. Hope it’s enough,” Pete said as Steve held out an open evidence bag. The slug plunked to the bottom.

Steve slowly shook his head. Such a tiny, lethal thing.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as Pete wearily pinched the bridge of his nose.

It would’ve been easier to not answer at all, Pete knew. There was no sense in lying to the guy, but he wasn’t particularly keen on experiencing a breakdown in the middle of a hospital, either. He settled with a shrug and question of his own.

“What about you? How do you—”

 

_“—stay so calm?” Emma Jinks asked quietly, her voice worn to a rasp and eroded from weeks of emotional upheaval. She reached under her sunglasses with one hand, presumably to push away tears, while the other gripped the steering wheel. Steve sat in the passenger seat, his fingers laced around a rose stem in his lap as he contemplated the knot in his chest. The space between them widened as silent minutes passed, and this strange new chapter of his life, Life Without Olivia, began._

Learn. Meditate. Find your path.

_Steve shrugged and looked out the window. The world was bright and warm today. Olivia would have loved it, would’ve been happy to see and feel it._

_He couldn’t be. Not today. Not after putting his sister in the ground._

One: the truth of suffering.

_His mother looked tired underneath all the black. The events of the weeks past had taken their toll, entirely separate demons from their incomprehensible loss:_

_The police on their doorstep that evening. The coroner’s report. The well-meaning phone calls. The now-vacant bedroom across from his. The taunts at school. The strange vulnerability he felt without her, his personal ray of sunshine and his best friend._

Two: the truth of the origin of suffering.

_Stray bullet, the police had said. Gang shooting. The autopsy report had been similarly bleak: gunshot wound. Nine-millimeter recovered from the cranial cavity. She’d never known what hit her._

_Steve had hated hearing that. It was salt in the wound of a senseless death. Olivia had deserved to know the truth; had deserved, really, to not die at all._

Three: the truth of the end of suffering.

_“Just drop me off here,” Steve mumbled as the car rolled to a stop in their neighborhood._

_His mother sniffed. “You sure?”_

_Steve nodded and let himself out. He carried the rose in both hands, his eyes downcast. Sunlight filtered through the trees that lined the quiet street._

_Olivia wasn’t gone. Not really. Her warmth was in the sunlight, her laughter on the breeze. She could be everywhere, if he wanted her to._

Four: the truth of the path leading to the end of suffering.

_He winced as a thorn dug into his finger. With an impassive gaze, he eyed the bead of scarlet that formed._

_The knot in his chest loosened._

_He almost smiled._

 

“Take it one minute at a time,” Steve answered as he placed a reassuring hand on Pete’s shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll contact you as soon as I get to Quantico.”

The men each turned and went their separate ways.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.


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